


Maybe Bad Days Can Be Soft, Too

by the_ocean_burned



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew is stuck in his head, Angst, Cuddling, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced CSA, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Neil is supportive, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, SO, and needs a hug, andrew's self-talk is horrible my dudes, basically all the warnings for aftg in general, he's terrible to himself, listen to Don't Let Me Down by the chainsmokers for maximum emotion, probably full of typos rip, they're married, this is probably fairly ooc and it's super duper self indulgent but whatever, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:03:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11700759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_burned/pseuds/the_ocean_burned
Summary: Andrew had lived through a lot of days. All he wants right now is a hug.





	Maybe Bad Days Can Be Soft, Too

**Author's Note:**

> still not dead

Andrew did not like this sort of day.

Andrew had lived through a lot of days. The first kind he could remember was, predictably, painful, as the first memory he could call to mind was being beaten by one of his first foster fathers. He had been on the cusp of three years old, maybe, or perhaps a little older. This kind of day was the kind that started off with pain and ended with a restless but dreamless sleep, with a lot of wondering what he had done wrong and dazed sobbing in between. Looking back, Andrew wondered if those days had been a blessing, because at least then, he could stand the thought of sleep.

The second kind of day was the rarest kind, because they were the golden ones. The ones filled with sunlight and sweets and five-year-old Andrew’s tiny bubble of a laugh. The ones that had fed Andrew’s sweet tooth enough in a week to make sure that it stuck around for the rest of his natural life. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was a blessing or a curse, really, but it didn’t matter, because those days were long gone. The only time those days had been around had been when he was small, living with his fourth foster mother – a single woman with a broad smile and a gentle touch. He had stayed with her for a grand total of ten days, and then she had been killed in a car crash and he had gone straight back into the system. He had not had a day that close to truly good since. In retrospect, Cass and that woman were disturbingly similar. Andrew didn’t like to think about either of those women, though, so he ignored them and their similarity.

After that, there had only been one kind of day for a long time. Those were the days Andrew spend being yelled at, hit, kicked, and bullied, followed by nights spent crying and screaming into a pillow as Andrew learned just how much it hurt to have another man on top of him. Those were the days that had broken Andrew. Those days were the ones that had driven him into the pits of depression – Bee said that he had PTSD, too, but Andrew didn’t like that, so he chose to ignore it – and lead to the scars lining Andrew’s wrists and the insides of his thighs. Those days were full of pain and fear and shame and guilt, and they were all the more hateful for it.

Once Andrew had gotten out of juvie, Andrew had found he had the strength to protect others, even if he didn’t have the strength to protect himself, so he had killed Tilda. She wasn’t his real mother, nor was she truly Aaron’s, so Andrew couldn’t find it in himself to care whether she lived or died. He just got tired of watching her drug Aaron and beat him.

Those days had been immediately followed by a long string of blurred, fuzzy days that Andrew had forgotten most of thanks to his meds. During those days, Andrew had realized that he was only capable of two feelings when he was sober: fear and anger. It was this belief that had made it so easy to dismiss Neil as a side effect. It was what had made it easy to pretend Neil didn’t matter, for Andrew to tell himself that Neil was nothing but a pipe dream.

But now that Andrew had grudgingly accepted that Neil was going to stick around, that Neil was real and attainable and assured of his _yes_ es and respectful of Andrew’s _no_ ’s, a new kind of day had been cropping up more and more often. They weren’t the same as those blessed laughter-filed days from the only good foster home he could remember, but they were better than most days were anymore. The most accurate word Andrew could come up with to describe those days was _soft._ Those days began with Andrew waking first to that hateful split second of panic – _where am I who’s next to me where are my knives I need to get out_ – followed by the soothing realization that it was just Neil – _he won’t hurt me I’m safe here it’s okay._ It was easier now that they had both graduated, because now they had a bed big enough that Andrew didn’t risk waking Neil with nothing more than a shaky breath after a nightmare. In the dorms at Palmetto, they had been forced to sleep with barely three inches of space between them when they shared a bed thanks to a mattress that was really only made to fit one person. They had been close – almost too close for Andrew to handle at the time – but it was right about then that Andrew began to realize that having Neil that near to him while he slept was almost comforting and it helped with the nightmares, through some strange, backwards logic. Bee had told him it was because he trusted Neil, because he felt _safe_ with Neil, but Andrew hadn’t liked that, so he had ignored it.

The soft days usually happened on weekends. On those days, Andrew only reluctantly left the comfort of the bed and Neil’s presence beside him, typically because one of the cats got tired of waiting to be fed and began to paw at Andrew’s feet. Those days were kind to Andrew, with no memories of unwanted hands on his skin or the paralyzing fear of being pinned down by the heavy weight of a body twice as big as his own. Instead, there was nothing but Neil, the man Andrew swore he hated even though they both knew it was a lie. If Andrew was forced to choose, he’d have to say those days were his favorites – calm, quiet, domestic, and he could to go to bed as close to happy as he thought he could get at the end.

And then there were days like this. Andrew _hated_ them. He hated them because they were a reminder that, even though it had been years since Proust and Baltimore, even though it had been years since anything truly _bad_ happened to Neil or Aaron or Kevin or Nicky or Robin or himself, Andrew wasn’t better. Not really. Days like this were days where Andrew had to force himself to get out of bed, where everything was _too close_ and _too loud_ and _too big_ and _too much,_ where everything felt a hundred times more emotionally exhausting than it would be usually. These were the days when holding Neil’s hand was even too much for Andrew to handle, when sometimes Andrew would have to ask Neil to sleep on the couch because he simply couldn’t deal with the weight of another person on the other side of the mattress. These days made Andrew wonder why Neil stayed, why Andrew hadn’t thrown himself off the roof of the apartment building yet, why he was worth the oxygen he breathed. These days were the worst for Andrew, and he knew they were no better for Neil. Even if Neil was only ever gentle and understanding and intent on making these awful days as bearable as possible for Andrew, he knew it was hard for Neil to see him like this and he knew Neil worried. If Andrew could’ve flipped a switch in his head and made these days stop, he would have, but he couldn’t, so both he and Neil ended up suffering thanks to Andrew’s lack of control.

Andrew just sighed resignedly in his head and added that to his ever-growing mental list of reasons to hate himself.

These days were the easiest for Andrew to identify. He didn’t even have to open his eyes. He knew by the way every inch of him felt heavy, as if merely existing was weighing his limbs down. He knew by the way the blankets felt warmer and more inviting around him, but also flimsier. Andrew felt vulnerable and bare, especially once he remembered that his armbands were all the way on the other side of the room, sitting on top of the dresser, knives tucked neatly inside. He knew it was going to be a worse-than-usual day by the empty, echoing feeling in his chest and by the way he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes all the way, even when Neil began to stir awake beside him.

 _At least it’s a Saturday,_ Andrew mused dully in a halfway desperate attempt to find some sort of silver lining to the situation. _And at least we didn’t have anything planned for today._

On a normal day, with no nightmares or stress or impending Exy games looming over his head, it took Neil five minutes to wake up enough to form any sort of coherent speech. As there hadn’t been any abrupt awakenings or panic attacks the night before and there was a week before Neil’s next game, Andrew assumed it was a full five minutes between Neil rolling over to lay on his side, making the mattress shift and the blankets pull tight around Andrew for moment, and Neil speaking.

“Andrew?”

Of course that was the first thing out of Neil’s mouth. _Junkie._

Andrew tried voice that thought out loud, but all he could manage to force out was a vague hum. Oh, that was bad. Usually he could at least manage to form complete sentences, even on his bad days.

Neil seemed to realize something was wrong because he shifted just a little further away from Andrew, trying to keep him from feeling crowded and dealing with it in the only way he knew how – with a knife or a fist to Neil’s gut. Something in Andrew’s chest protested the distance, wanting Neil closer, wanting to be wrapped in Neil’s arms and protected. Andrew didn’t like this urge for closeness and physicality, so he pushed it away and ignored it.

“Andrew,” Neil said again, gentler this time. Andrew’s gut twisted a little when he realized that Neil was still so damn _afraid_ of hurting Andrew, that he still had to treat Andrew like he was made of glass. _Weak,_ Andrew’s mind hissed. _Weak and useless as always._

Andrew forced his eyes open just enough to see Neil’s worried expression. _Too broken to heal, too weak to do anything about it, Bee is wrong, Neil is wrong, you can’t be helped._ He let his eyes slide shut again, not wanting to face the raw look on Neil’s face. He turned his head so his face was pressed into the pillow, wondering idly if he’d suffocate even as he allowed himself to be vulnerable. No, Neil wouldn’t let him. _Yes he would. You’re nothing but a nuisance to him. Why wouldn’t he let you die?_

Neil sighed softly and Andrew could practically see the resignation on his face. _See? You’re a burden. Nothing more._

Andrew hated his mind, some days.

“Bad brain day?” Neil murmured in Russian. Andrew appreciated the switch in language; the sharp edges of the syllables rolling off Neil’s tongue kept Andrew grounded. No one in any of his foster homes had ever spoken Russian.

Andrew hummed a little, the sound disgustingly small and weak, always weak. _You don’t know how to be anything else. You’re just a useless lump of flesh who’s beneath everyone around you. Don’t you know that? Didn’t Drake teach you anything? Proust? Steven? Jesse? Samuel? You never learn, do you? No, of course not. You’re too stupid for that._

“Alright,” Neil replied without missing a beat. “What do you need?”

Andrew didn’t know. He shrugged as best he could, despising that he couldn’t even manage to speak. It was disgusting how reliant he was on Neil. _You know better, you dumb motherfucker. You know better than to trust people. And yet, here we are._

“That’s fine,” Neil said, always able to accept Andrew’s wavering ability to handle even the simplest of things. It was vaguely annoying. “What do you need from me?”

Neil was very aware of why those last two words made that question different from “ _what do you need?”_ Even now, Neil never asked Andrew what he wanted, if for no other reason than to avoid the habitual _“I don’t want anything”_ Andrew always offered in response. Andrew appreciated the gesture, though, especially on a day like this; it was still hard for him to admit to so much as _needing_ anything, even on good days. He wasn’t sure he could handle _wanting_ anything.

Andrew considered Neil’s question. Some irrational part of him told him to pull Neil closer, to pillow his head on Neil’s chest and let the steady thrum of Neil’s heartbeat beneath Andrew’s ear lull him back to sleep. Andrew pushed the thought away. That sort of mental image had no place in his head on a day like this. Those thoughts were reserved for the soft days, when Andrew could imagine it and sometimes even act on these strangely affectionate impulses. But today was not a soft day, and Andrew did not like having soft things in his head on days that weren’t equally soft, so he ignored it.

Another part of Andrew told him to push Neil as far away as possible, to make Neil sleep at Robin’s or Kevin’s or Wymack’s for the weekend while Andrew sorted himself out and reminded himself of what it felt like to dig a blade into his own skin for the sake of some semblance of control. Andrew knew that Neil would leave, too, if Andrew asked. Knowing this didn’t make Andrew feel any better. Instead, it coiled a heavy, ugly ball of self-hatred through Andrew’s gut. _You’re just like the rest. Neil is only with you to keep you from stabbing him. He doesn’t want you, not really. He doesn’t want any of it. No matter how hard you try, he’ll never_ _actually_ love _you. Who could ever love a monster? You’re too manipulative, too controlling, too possessive. Don’t you see? They’d all be better off without you._

Andrew didn’t like the sudden urge to throw himself out the window this train of thought carried with it, so he ignored both.

This left Andrew with only his physical needs to attend to, since none of his emotions made any sense and were therefore unworthy of Andrew’s attention. For a moment, Andrew struggled to be able to find words. Pulling them out of the ugly black hole in his chest that swallowed everything inside him was always a challenge on days like this.

“Oatmeal.”

Andrew meant for the word to come out as a question, but his voice was too flat for it to be anything but demanding. Internally, he slapped himself. Neil was not a dog or some other mindlessly obedient creature to be ordered around. _No, you’re too greedy for control to treat him as anything else. That’s your own fault. Don’t try to pretend that you’re any better than Drake. You’re not. You know you’re not._

But Neil just smiled and nodded, not even reacting to Andrew’s harsh demand. _Of course he wouldn’t. He’s too afraid of you to say no, and he doesn’t even you’re being abusive in the first place because he’s been dragged around on a leash his entire life._

“Can I kiss you?” Neil asked softly, wincing a little as King jumped up onto his side and dug a paw into his rib, probably by accident.

Andrew thought for a moment. “Where?”

“Just your forehead.”

Andrew nodded. He could handle that. It was only a soft little gesture, nothing invasive or sexual, and it was just theirs. Not even Cass had ever kissed him on the forehead. All of Andrew’s associations with that, at least, were positive.

Neil smiled again and pressed a kiss to the center of Andrew’s forehead as promised. A shudder ran down Andrew’s spine, although he tried his best to hide it. The worried furrow between Neil’s eyebrows told Andrew he’d failed, and guilt settled in Andrew’s gut, heavy and familiar. Andrew closed his eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” Neil said, and the mattress creaked as Andrew felt Neil’s weight leave the bed. Andrew didn’t open his eyes as Neil shuffled out of the room or as Neil began to move pots and pans in the kitchen. Andrew didn’t open his eyes as King pawed at his chest or as Sir draped himself over Andrew’s legs. Andrew didn’t open his eyes when he heard Neil start to pull bowls down from the cupboard. It was too much effort.

_God, you can’t even open your eyes? Useless. How could you think for even a second that you could do any good in the world? You can’t even get out of bed, you pathetic fuck. Honestly._

There was a quiet noise as Neil set two bowls down on the bedside table. Andrew opened his eyes. Neil smiled down at him and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Andrew forced himself to sit up, stubbornly ignoring the way every movement hurt almost physically and the way it felt like his body was encased in heavy iron chains that kept him from moving properly. Neil smiled at Andrew, almost looking proud – _Why would he be proud of you? You can’t even function. There’s nothing for him to be proud of. He’s just trying to appease you because he’s scared of the consequences._ – and gently handed Andrew a bowl of oatmeal. Andrew could smell the mass amounts of honey Neil had put in it. Something warm burst briefly in Andrew’s chest with the knowledge that Neil knew exactly how Andrew liked his oatmeal and went to extra lengths to give that to him. The feeling was gone as soon as it had appeared, like a popped bubble, but it was a minor improvement and Andrew would take whatever he could get.

“Be careful,” Neil warned as he nudged King away from Andrew’s bowl. “It’s hot.”

Andrew hummed jaggedly in response and stirred the oatmeal idly, waiting for it to cool off. He could feel Neil’s eyes on him, but couldn’t acknowledge it right then. Andrew didn’t want to face Neil’s pity. Not now, when he was so close to falling apart and spilling his guts to Neil anyway. Some days, it was so _tempting_ to just tell Neil what ran through his head on a daily basis, because it was disturbingly easy to entertain the idea that Neil could _help._ Neil hadn’t run away when he found out about Drake or Proust or any of the rest of Andrew’s foster families, and Neil hadn’t left when he realized that Andrew would always have a laundry list of terms and conditions and boundaries that Neil would have to circumvent, and he was still here, even though Andrew was practically useless and Neil could easily have been practicing Exy right then. That tiny little part of Andrew that still hoped for good things was constantly reminding him that he could trust Neil, even with just a little bit. _Neil would never hurt you for being vulnerable,_ it whispered. _No, he would just save that for later and then, once he leaves, he’ll take all your secrets and plaster them all over the Internet for the world to see,_ responded the overwhelmingly cynical part of Andrew that generally dominated his personality.

For once, Andrew was inclined to side with the miniscule particle of optimism that had somehow managed to survive his life. It was a rare occurrence, but clearly not nonexistent like Andrew had thought.

Again, the thought of curling into Neil’s side and letting himself be held flitted through Andrew’s mind. It wasn’t like Andrew wasn’t aware that casual physical contact could be a comfort, it just usually wasn’t. Not for him, anyway. But Neil had always been the odd one out, the exception to all of Andrew’s rules that had always been so set in stone. Why couldn’t this one be any different?

_And what are you going to do? Ask him to cuddle you like a two-year-old? Honestly, dumbass, be realistic. Romanticizing shit isn’t going to make you anything but a disgustingly naïve piece of shit._

Andrew sighed through his nose and glared down at his oatmeal as if it was its fault that his mental state was fucked up. He couldn’t punch the people who were actually responsible, and punching himself in the face would be incredibly counterproductive and probably freak Neil out, so giving his food the death glare came in a distant third.

Worry was radiating off Neil like body heat. Andrew was starting to get annoyed.

“What?” Andrew snapped, then winced internally. He didn’t want to yell at Neil. He knew Neil was just worried. What Andrew really wanted was a hug, but that wasn’t happening. For one thing, he wasn’t sure he could handle being touched, and for another, that was too gentle for Andrew to allow it. Bad days were about flashbacks and violence and vague longing for a blade against his wrist. Soft days were for the gentle things like hugs and cuddling and laying his head on Neil’s shoulder and letting Neil rest his hand lightly in the dip above Andrew’s hips. Bad days were all about taking and taking and _taking_ things from Andrew. He could not bear to take anything from Neil on a bad day. _Otherwise, you’d be just as bad as_ them, _wouldn’t you? Pitiful. You try so damn hard to keep from being an abusive piece of shit, but here you are, being a selfish little bitch and looking for a hug. You’re not a toddler clinging to your mother’s skirts anymore, dumbass. Grow up. Physical affection can’t fix jack shit._

Neil didn’t even flinch. “I’m worried. Talk to me, Andrew. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t beg, even though his tone was bordering on desperate, and he knew better than to ever say _please,_ even when he was concerned. For some reason, this only made Andrew angrier. He wanted Neil to slip up, to make a mistake, to do something, _anything,_ that would make it easier for Andrew to keep himself from folding in on himself and letting Neil hold him. _This is unacceptable,_ he sneered at himself. _Get over yourself. Just because Neil is willing to pay attention to it doesn’t mean that you deserve it, fucker. You’re a monster, remember? Monsters don’t deserve love or affection, and they sure as fuck don’t get it._

Andrew glanced at the pair of silver rings sitting on the bedside table. They were simple, and their marriage had consisted of Kevin and Aaron as witnesses and a priest, but for some reason, Andrew had felt like he had died. He had been impossibly light. The sight of the rings hardened some of the steel in his spine. As stupid as they were, they were a reassurance. A safety net. A physical representation of the knowledge that Neil would fight tooth and nail to keep Andrew by his side.

_I don’t deserve this, but I have it, and as long as Neil deludes himself into thinking I’m a good person, I’m not going to push him away. He deserves this much.. He deserves to know._

Andrew took in a slow breath through his nose, then released it just as slowly. Neil sat patiently beside him, slowly eating is oatmeal.

“I keep thinking it would be easier if I added to these,” Andrew admitted, his voice low but blessedly steady despite his fear, as he ghosted the tip of his fingers over the exposed scars on his arms. Neil had seen them enough times that Andrew felt relatively comfortable without covering them, even on days like this. .

Neil sat up a little straighter.

“I know better now,” Andrew continued, his courage and stubbornness making him get to the point of what he was saying. “But the thought is still there.”

“Andrew…”

For once in his life, Neil seemed to be at a loss for words. Who knew that a glimpse into Andrew’s head was all it took to shut him up? _Makes sense. Your head is more fucked up than anything he’s seen, and that’s saying something, considering Baltimore._

The intrusive reminder of Baltimore put a sick feeling in Andrew’s stomach and he pushed the oatmeal away. King sniffed it hopefully but Neil whisked the bowl off the bed before the stupid cat could try to eat it.

“Andrew,” Neil said again, holding his hand out palm-up. An invitation, not a request or a question. “What do you want?”

That _question._ God damn it all to hell and back. There was that fucking question. Andrew hadn’t realized he needed to hear it until it came out of Neil’s mouth. But there it was, hanging between them, expecting an answer.

No, not expecting. Neil never _expected_ anything of Andrew. It was one of the things that made him so damn obnoxious. He was hoping for an answer, and if Andrew didn’t give him one, he wouldn’t press.

_God damn it._

Andrew let out a slow breath and scooted toward Neil, ignoring Sir’s disgruntled hiss when Andrew’s legs came out from beneath him. Neil raised his eyebrows a little but stayed silent, letting Andrew take what he needed.

_That’s right, take and take and take. You’re always taking things from people, Andrew. Their lives, their happiness, their affection. You’re a fucking parasite. You just steal and don’t give anything back._

_That’s not true,_ piped up that tiny golden voice of hope. _You gave Neil keys and a home and a name. Neil loves you, and you love him. This is not a one-way street, and neither of you have ever treated it as such. You let him push you down and touch you and kiss you, even after everything. He gives you affection and you give him trust._

For once, Andrew was inclined to agree with the miniscule optimist in his head.

He curled up against Neil’s side, tucking his head into the curve of Neil’s shoulder and slotting his side against Neil’s. They had always fit together uncannily well, Neil’s slightly longer but thinner frame curling sinuously around Andrew’s shorter and stockier one.

A quiet sense of peace settled between Andrew’s ribs. This was almost a surprise. But, because he was with Neil, it made sense. Andrew could not imagine doing this with Roland or any of the boys he had experimented with in juvie. This was something that only Neil had ever shared with Andrew, and it was practically a guarantee that it would stay that way. The wedding rings on the night stand were proof of that.

Neil tentatively wrapped his arm around Andrew’s shoulders; it was obvious that he wasn’t quite sure where the boundaries were at this moment. Usually, Andrew wasn’t a terribly cuddly person, but right then, being pressed against Neil’s side was the safest he had felt since he had woken up.

“Ah,” Neil hummed. He set his oatmeal to the side with Andrew’s and laid down fully, bringing Andrew with him.

Andrew’s head ended up pillowed on Neil’s chest, one of Andrew’s legs was thrown over Neil’s, and Neil’s arms were both wrapped around Andrew, holding him close. Something inside Andrew was screeching _yes, yes, yes, yes, this is what you needed._ Andrew couldn’t help but agree.

At some point, Andrew fell asleep. When he woke several hours later to the sight of mid-afternoon sunlight filtering in through the shades in stripes that highlighted the sharpest features of Neil’s still-sleeping face, Andrew thought that perhaps an awful day could turn into a soft day, after all.


End file.
